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| Getting into the Red |
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I’d been tripping over a 7 foot high puppet in the hallway for a couple of weeks before John, my partner, casually mentioned that he’d signed me up for Beltane. ‘What? Like, as a performer? With no clothes on?’ I had images of friends staring in horror as I stood alone in a field, entirely naked and swaying gently to the sound of distance drums, while tears ran down my painted face. ‘Calm down, it’s just as a spotter for the puppets to make sure we don’t fall over. You still get to dress up and jig about though. It’ll be fun.’
I was being put in an ideal position. I would get to truly experience Beltane, without the months of preparation that so many others had put in. Lazy, I know, but I consider fetching glasses of juice for my puppet-making boyfriend a fairly large contribution. Now the only thing I had to get over was myself. I’m a stand-up comedian, so clearly not shy about performing but this was a whole different ball game. The puppeteers are part of the Red Men, whose essence is sexual, playful, liberated and draws upon the wilder side of the personality. It was always the point I was most drawn to; I love the concept of ripping off restraints of society, if only for one night. As I was handed my ‘dick on a stick’ (a bright red penis with wings, to be my weapon against any of the masses that got…ummm…cocky) I realised that was going to take a whole different mindset. On the night, I was wearing the obligatory red, but about seven layers of it. As a spotter this was allowed, if not really in the spirit of things. We went along to the room where everyone else was getting painted red: I probably won’t forget the moment I walked in to see a sea of nudity, smeared in body paint and mud, all chatting like it perfectly natural to point out a white patch round your mate’s right nipple. It didn’t take long for me to shrug, strip and get painted up ‘just in case I decide to take my t-shirt for a bit later on. Keep my coat on, of course, but you know…’ John just nodded and smiled. The magic increased as evening’s warm-up heightened, in the way only the Reds know how. The silent procession to the hill was surprisingly powerful. Covered up by their cloaks, with only a peek of a sneering red face to curious members of the public, the reds made an impressive procession that delighted tourists and confused a group of teenagers who kept trying to ‘chat’ until a growl from one of the scarier beasts made them run off screaming. I realised I was walking differently, I was striding along with the confidence of a pack member, even though I was still an outsider to the tribe I felt protected. We climbed Calton Hill as the sun glimmered to a doze over the city. From that moment it was clear there was something electric in the atmosphere: there was a buzz about the area that several spectators commented on as they shivered with an energy they didn’t fully understand. As the sun set, the fire sculptures were lit, the drums started and the crowd began to get swept up in an ancient ceremony that seemed totally natural in the surroundings.
The next day, still coated in crusty red paint we were too lazy to scrape off, we lay in bed staring at the sunshine. I was knackered. Every part of my body ached, I smelt like a field and I was fairly sure I’d lost a bra. But, Mother Earth, did I feel good. I’d taken part in a celebration of all the things we forget to appreciate: the Earth, the Spring and the Human. That night we were reminded that it was all part of something bigger, and that was something beautiful. That beats all the therapy in the world.
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This suddenly became a lot more interesting. My beliefs are a messy concoction of faiths and stuff-I-like-to-think-of-as-true but I’ve got enough Pagan in me to attend the festival on Carlton Hill. It’s held every year by the Beltane Fire Society, a committed group of volunteers who put in a crazy amount of work into making the event bigger and more impressive every year. It’s managed to keep the spirit of Beltane alive, with strict adherence to the traditional roles of the May Queen, Green Man and the various ‘points’ they visit on the parade around the hill.
Then it was our cue. At the last minute I whipped off the t-shirt I’d been relying on to cover my poor, repressed body and just wore a leather jacket and short skirt as we danced under the acropolis, the puppets had gloriously ridiculous sex and we writhed our way around the audience. By the end of the night, once puppets had been discarded and we were crawling towards the May Queen, even the leather jacket had been left by the wayside. The moment of true liberation was when I saw a friend as I danced (well, wriggled) in front of her and felt nothing but pride and excitement that I was part of this…thing. Myself and the puppeteers humped, spanked and howled our way through the night, before sloping off to the many, many hours of post-Beltane celebrations.
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